


Leveling

by holograms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M, Strangulation, while at the Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you going to do, choke me?” Jon Snow asks.  It almost feels like an invitation. Stannis’ hands twitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leveling

“What are you going to do, choke me?” Jon Snow asks, stern and with eyes glaring. He tilts his head back, baring his neck like some kind of animal.

It almost feels like an invitation. Stannis’ hands twitch.

Stannis tests the idea planted by Snow, reaching his hand out while considering the possibility — he’s not one for unnecessary violence, however, the thought of his hands gripping his neck, the idea of Snow struggling for air makes his heart beat a little faster.

He wills it to slow down.

He averts his gaze from Snow, but he still feels his presence there, and Snow takes advantage of that and ups the ante, taking a step forward. “Your Grace?”

Stannis would never dare take such action towards another, but the winter is long and torturous, as are his thoughts. They are alone in the tower that Snow has taken as residence, where the only light and warmth are from the fire that Snow had made before it escalated to _this_ , and despite the crackling flame, dark and cold still hangs in the air, surrounding. Stannis pulls off one of his leather gloves and lets it fall to the table where it joins scrolls filled with improbable plans, and raises his bare hand to Snow’s neck, thumb grazing over his beard. Snow continues to stare at him; it’s unnerving, like he’s daring him to do more.

It is something that Stannis would never admit it aloud, but he both hates and loves a challenge. Snow is anything but.

He moves his hand so it fits around Snow’s throat, thumb on one side and fingers splayed against skin on the other, and he experimentally applies pressure, with hardly enough strength to snap a twig.

“You know you want to,” Snow says, and Stannis feels every word vibrate against his palm. “You can do better than that.”

Anger flares, and Stannis grips his hand tight around Snow’s throat, and the gasp Snow takes sends a shock up his spine. He takes a step closer, so that he’s towering over Snow and breathing heavily down onto him, and says, “Do not assume what I want.”

Snow looks up at him, and licks his lips. “But I know what you desire, it’s control.” Snow’s words come out in breaths, his jaw working against Stannis’ hand. “You’ve lost it, Your Grace.”

He jostles Snow, shoving him so the back of his thighs slam into the table, and he tightens his hold on his neck, fingernails cutting into his skin. Snow’s breath hitches, his chest rising quick and harsh, and he pulls on Stannis’ coat to bring him closer.

Stannis could feel Snow’s now hard cock pressing against his hip, and he feels his own cock twitch in his trousers at the thought of how he is affected because he’s got his hand at this throat, slowly depriving him of air. He realizes that Snow must know, know that he’s turned on by this — this _game_ too, because he wraps his hand around Stannis’ wrist and rasps, “Don’t stop.”

Stopping isn’t something that Stannis intends to do, not now when he feels the most in control he has since before the war started — even if it is choking the air out of a bastard that’s too stubborn and too pretty for his own good. “I will place you in my Kingsguard. Let you wear a pristine white cloak when we both know how your cock gets hard for your king,” Stannis says, knowing what Snow wants, the words that would normally disgust him coming easy when he’s riled up. “I will make you my knight, my whore.” He presses his body harder against him, rubbing his erection against Snow’s, while holding a firm grip on his windpipe, his thumb digging deep into the side of his neck where he can feel blood pumping _thud thud thud_.

Snow bucks his hips and Stannis watches as his eyelids flutter shut, presumably from both the pleasure and the sensation of getting less and less oxygen, and Snow let outs a sound that can only be described as a whine, high and caught in the back of his throat. Stannis grits his teeth and allows himself to fall into the sensation of it, one that’s driving him simply _mad._

“I bet you’d like to suck my cock.” Stannis spits it out, gruff and only slightly abashed. “Down on your knees, sucking it with that nice mouth of yours.” Words fall from his mouth, and he can feel his face flushing as he returns the thrusting rhythm that Snow has set out.

“P-please,” Snow manages to gasp, his voice light and struggling.

“Please, what?”

A pause, and then, “Please, Your Grace.”

Stannis knows that Snow cannot be deprived of air much longer — his body is lulling, and he feels his pulse going slower, a _thud. thud…thud_ against his fingertips — but he continues, and he knows that Snow is close to releasing by the way that he’s desperately rutting against him. He tightens his grip further still, and leans forward to Snow’s face, close enough that he can hear the small desperate noises that he’s making, and commands, “Say my name.”

Snow’s mouth parts, moving silently before forming sound. “Stannis.”

The next part happens quick — Stannis closes the space between them and presses chapped lips to Snow’s, and that’s when Snow comes with a strangled cry. Stannis immediately lets the grip of his fingers go lax, moving his hand to tangle in Snow’s unkempt curls.

He parts their lips and backs his face away from his, so he can see Snow’s reaction fully. Snow rides out his high, his body spasming, his hands falling to Stannis’ hips to steady himself as he takes in deep breaths of air. Stannis watches as he inhales and exhales harshly, greedily gulping down icy air, tears forming at the corners of his eyes with the relief of breathing and life. Stannis finds it oddly beautiful.

A few moments later, Snow regains his senses and returns his kiss, biting at Stannis’ lip, still breathing hard, sharing rough breath with him. He trails a hand down between them and palms at the other's erection, and Stannis unceremoniously comes at his touch, silent and quick.

Stannis steps back, while Snow leans on the table. From where he stands, he can see red marks around Snow’s neck peeking out from beneath Snow’s collar. Snow glances up at him, looking through his dark lashes.

His voice is horse when he speaks, “Stannis?”

Stannis finds his center again, straightening his clothes and posture and persona. “It’s _Your Grace_ to you,” he says, before taking his leave out of the room. With a glance stolen before his closes the door, he sees that Snow is smirking.

It isn’t until later that Stannis realizes that he left his glove in Snow's quarters. It is because his thoughts were consumed with the fact that if this miserable war ever does end and he somehow survives it, he would have to make sure that the bastard Jon Snow is made one of his Kingsguard — the image of Snow wrapped in a white cloak is one that he could not shake.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcome :)


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